and I will be 24. This whole week has felt weird and awkward, like I'm in-between ages (which I am). I feel kind of indifferent about my inevitably soon birthday. I'm not yet fearing that I'm "too old" and I'm also not self-conscious about being "too young." Birthdays don't mean much to me anymore. They were much more fun when I was little. Sometimes I wish I were small again and didn't have to deal with "adult" things. Author Sandra Cisneros has a short story, "Eleven," about birthdays that I always think about when mine comes along. She says that we are not only our current age, but all the ages beneath as well.
What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.
Tomorrow I will be 24; but I will also be 23, 22, 21, 20, 19, 18, 17, 16, 15, 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1.